


Rapid Eye Movement

by dana_norram



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2020-09-06 14:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20292820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram
Summary: The truth was Eames knew you didn’t need to know a person to care about them. You didn't have to ask about their favorite color, the middle name of their high school sweetheart. You didn't need a reason to want to understand all their hopes and dreams. Even if dreams were overrated. Even if they could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken, and finally torn apart. A vivid nightmare once you woke up to find out that your most guarded secret had been stolen.Arthur didn’t sound like he had any secrets worth stealing, though.





	1. It started easy

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Nolan built this world. I just filled it with my <s>porny</s> subconscious.  
Also: all my love and deeply thanks to: ilovetakahana, laria_gwyn and brilligspoons for their invaluable assistance. <3 Remaining mistakes are mine.

_It started easy._

Eames was just a guy Cobb’s guy knew and he had been in the business long enough to be familiar with Cobb’s reputation as an architect and extractor. Eames knew that Cobb used to be one of the good guys, accepting strictly legal jobs only, but he also knew that lately Cobb had been raising his game. It wasn’t really surprising. In this job, sooner or later they all fell off the edge, somehow.

The good news was that kind of change usually meant new money and new scenarios for Eames to crack. So when he was asked for a demonstration, Eames made sure Cobb won’t leave disappointed.

They took a plane to Saint Petersburg on that same evening.

As Cobb briefed him on the mark, Eames wondered who the rest of Cobb’s team would be. He asked, like it was nothing, and he wasn’t surprised when Cobb told him he worked only with this other fellow. An extracting team usually worked just fine as a trio, after all.

What did surprise Eames was Cobb frowning as an afterthought, then trying to warn him about that other fellow. Eames observed as Cobb opened his mouth, struggling with the words.

“He’s just... nothing like you.” Cobb would summarize a few minutes later.

And Eames couldn’t figure out whether he should be flattered or insulted.

Cobb shouldn’t have taken the trouble, though. Eames, who always had considered himself a friendly guy, knew on the spot that it would take a lot more than a smile and a handshake to be worthy of that Arthur boy’s trust. And Eames knew he needed his trust if they were planning to work together.

Their first job wasn’t supposed to be anything extraordinary, but the truth was Arthur gave Eames the hardest time of his career.

Like most point men, Arthur was driven by some pathological need to know _everything_. He articulated questions that Eames couldn’t put a finger how could they possibly matter. Arthur observed Eames impersonating someone like he was studying a mildly interesting biology class, making quick notes in a little notebook he carried everywhere he went. Arthur didn’t hesitate to criticize him, or Cobb, for that matter.

At the end of the fourth day, he cleared his throat and suggested Eames’ performance as a junkie who would interact with the mark was, maybe, just a _little_ bit over the top? The very next morning, Arthur handed Eames some data, interviews and statistics, so he could prove his point.

Eames was impressed. And annoyed as hell.

Arthur, good at his job like he was, of course, noticed it.

That was the first time Eames ever saw him smile.

It took him three whole days to see Arthur smile again. Arthur had finally cracked a file he’d been working on for weeks, and it turned out that the mark, an ex-dancer who had had a two-year affair with a Moscow mob boss, had a previous boyfriend with dream-sharing training, which gave them the very dangerous probability of having to deal with a militarized subconscious.

And they only had about two hours before the window to pick up the woman, who was having her appendix removed. Eames noticed as Arthur’s face went white for a few seconds, because Eames knew that Arthur knew they hadn’t prepared themselves for that.

“Eames has military training,” Cobb shrugged, talking to nobody in particular. Arthur, however, gave him a meaningful nod in return, his face turning directly to the model of Cobb’s labyrinth, plan B probably already starting to grow inside his head.

Then Eames realized his abilities as a forger obviously weren’t the only reason Cobb had hired him. Thinking about that, it did make a lot of sense to imagine Arthur digging into his life, like Eames was a proper target, before he could bring himself to agree with Cobb’s choice for a new teammate. Again, Eames didn’t know if he should feel insulted or flattered. Not that he wasn’t a little bit curious about what else Arthur might have found in his research.

They ended up changing their approach, but not by much. Eames introduced himself as a young junkie who needed the mark’s help and once her subconscious attacked them, Eames pretended to be on her side. As Arthur fought the projections, which were armed mostly with butcher knives, Eames helped Cobb extract her secret: the location where the mob boss had buried the body of their employer’s son. When Eames woke up in a hospital’s private room, still hooked to the PASIV, Arthur’s face turned to him and he realized Arthur was smiling, though not exactly at Eames. It was more like Arthur just couldn’t believe it had really worked. But it had.

It was early evening, and they had just returned the unconscious mark safely back to her room when Cobb gave Eames his share and thanked him for his help before disappearing, all in a matter of seconds.

“He does that,” Arthur offered as the door closed on Cobb.

And Eames thought that that was the first nice thing Arthur had said to him. He shook his head and watched in silence as Arthur gathered his belongings. All things considered, it had been a damn good job. Apart from the cash, which was considerably more than he was used to getting paid for his services, Eames thought working with Cobb and Arthur was intriguing, to say the least.

Cobb was brilliant; the way he built the dreamscape, how he put Eames’ skills to work with a flawless, beautiful extraction. And, there was Arthur. Well, Eames didn’t have any doubts Arthur was the best point man he had ever worked with.

Truth be told, he had never given that particular position any thought before. Most point men Eames had known over the years were just a bunch of sociopath schizophrenics, always hidden behind a computer or a notebook, taking their precious little notes so they could write down a thirty-page report. Arthur was different. Special, Eames could risk saying. Because even if Arthur _did_ need to know everything, Arthur would share only what Arthur thought was worth sharing.

Eventually, Eames would learn that this also could be an elaborate mousetrap. But he didn’t know it, not back then. Not as Arthur glanced up at him a few minutes after Cobb was gone. As he asked Eames if Eames was planning to leave or to stay in the city for the night. And Eames didn’t know whether Arthur was just making polite small talk or if he was really expecting for an answer.

Eames was a forger, yes. Reading people was what he did for a living. He observed people and gave them whomever the team needed him to be. But Eames knew he couldn’t figure Arthur out. Not well enough, not yet. So Eames did something else he also was pretty good at. He smirked, cocking his head. Then, Eames gambled.

“What, your little research didn’t show my lovely wife and the two children, a smart-mouthed boy and a little girl with ponytails, waiting for me to come home?”

Arthur snorted. “I never looked anywhere outside of your résumé, Mr. Eames.” He shrugged, finishing packing up graphs and charts. “Not that I had to, to be certain that you’re going to spend to the last penny everything you’ve earned here on a poker table, strong liquor, and with people charging by the hour.”

Eames noticed there was something about the very way Arthur talked. Not only as if Arthur _had_ to be right, but as if he needed everybody else to know it, too. Definitely annoying, Eames concluded. And a little bit charming, maybe, he mentally added.

“You’re pretty full of yourself, are you not?” Eames noted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, leaning against the wall.

Arthur was giving the PASIV inside the case a final check-up, his back turned to him. Eames observed as Arthur’s shoulders tensed up for a second or two, before he relaxed them completely. Arthur let his words out like he had planned each letter, syllable, stop and comma.

“You never look people in the eye when you’re awake, only when you’re under. You keep running a poker chip around your fingers when you’re trying to think. The poker chip is obviously a totem. You don’t seem to realize when you’re doing that or you just don’t care if people notice it. Either way, it makes me think you must have had an emotional breakdown and you discovered yourself very close to losing track of reality, once. Something happened to you and you won’t let that happen again. Being a forger is harder than being just a thief, but it’s also _safer_.”

During Arthur’s speech Eames had kept a hand on his chin. As it ended, Eames gestured briefly, shaking his head. “Impressive. For a point man, I mean.”

Arthur turned his body to face Eames. It was odd, but Eames thought that Arthur looked more pleasant than smug. Arthur parted his lips like he wanted to say something else, but Eames wasn’t done yet.

“It’s indeed impressive, my dear Arthur, that you’re still able to do your job, since you’re obviously so busy paying attention to me.” And Eames thought he might have overplayed his hand when Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. Arthur’s face, however, still seemed pleasant. He narrowed his eyes slightly at Eames.

“And somehow I’m the one full of myself.”

Eames fought back a laugh. Arthur _was_ good. In a different situation, Eames would be torn between punching Arthur and asking him out. Since he wasn’t doing either, given the real possibility of Arthur kicking his arse, Eames chose to wave a white flag. Because he didn’t have to crack into Arthur’s past to know the man had military training as well and not a single problem in beating people up while awake. And though Eames knew he probably could take Arthur in a fistfight, the perspective wasn’t really how he’d like to spend his first free night in days.

“I apologize.” And of course Arthur scowled at that, looking incredulous. “Why don’t I buy you a drink as a peace offering?”

And Eames asked like it was nothing, because the truth was he never thought Arthur would say yes. Even if it was Arthur who had suggested ‘plans for the night’ in the first place. Suggesting was one thing, expecting an answer, another. And a straight-up question like Eames’ was a completely different matter. Saying _yes_ to that kind of question could end impossibly badly and Eames knew Arthur must have reached the same conclusion before saying yes. So, that meant Arthur didn’t care about the outcomes and it made Eames painfully curious. And Eames was old enough to know that curiosity hardly played nice.

Eames would wonder, later, whether or not he would’ve invited Arthur out if somehow he could have foreseen the outcome.

_Maybe not_, he would think one day, wishing it was true and feeling alone. And bitter.

They went to a small hotel bar, just a couple of blocks away from the mark’s hospital. Arthur suggested the spot as they climbed down the maintenance stairs, and Eames accepted it without a word, because the truth was he really didn’t have anywhere else to be. After he had checked out of his own hotel early that morning, Eames had had just a couple of things in mind: finish the job, have a few drinks, and gamble a bit before catching a plane for someplace warmer. Jamaica, maybe.

Right then, Eames felt okay just watching Arthur drink a beer. He never would have picked Arthur for a beer drinker, but he was starting to reconsider it. Because, yes, Arthur talked like vodka, clean and deep and burning everything his words touched; and it was also true Arthur behaved like red wine, nice and polite, still fooling anyone who would be stupid enough to drink too much of it. But, yes, Arthur did smile exactly like beer, like something surprisingly easy and refreshing, once you got used to its taste.

They didn’t talk, much. Arthur seemed satisfied with his earlier conclusions and didn’t ask him about anything else. Eames was okay with that as well. Because although Arthur had hit pretty close to home, Arthur didn’t have to know that. Eames couldn’t see how that could turn into anything but trouble; they had spent a whole week deep inside each other’s heads, yes, but that was completely different.

Up above, if you screwed things up, you wouldn’t just wake up and get to do it all over again. And you did not mess around with people you worked with, especially not in this line of business. It was very bad for your sanity, hideously bad for your wallet – and Eames was absolutely fond of both of them. He’d lived long enough to see his share of ruined jobs over somebody else’s instability and given the kind of money usually involved in operations such these, well. You could say those people’s instability could end up being the _least_ of their problems.

So, as long things were kept that way, all neutral, friendly and light, you wouldn’t end up caring, and both of you would be able to get the job done. Because there was no room for personal rubbish when you worked in something so unstable as someone else’s dreams, already filled up with their own set of alien feelings, pained regrets, and suffocated guilt.

But the truth was Eames knew you didn’t need to know a person to care about them. You didn’t have to ask about their favorite color, the middle name of their high school sweetheart. You didn’t need a reason to want to understand all their hopes and dreams. Even if dreams were overrated. Even if they could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken, and finally torn apart. A vivid nightmare once you woke up to find out that your most guarded secret had been stolen.

Arthur didn’t sound like he had any secrets worth stealing, though. Arthur talked about his time in the army like it was something he thought of as obvious and unimportant. About how he met Cobb when he was recruited to design a dream, and how Cobb taught Arthur how they could do a lot more than shoot, strangle and stab each other, and finally how Cobb called Arthur to work with him after Arthur was discharged, a few years later.

And yes, Eames thought, he had already figured out that much just from watching Arthur closely. The way he moved, asleep or awake, how he dressed and talked, stabbed, strangled and shot. Everything preplanned and executed like Arthur didn’t have any choice but to be strictly right. How Arthur criticized Cobb as they worked, but obviously still trusted him with his life. It was a partnership only time could build, and Eames imagined how nice it would be to have Arthur trust him like that, one day.

Arthur never mentioned what caused him and Cobb to cross over into illegal activity, and Eames didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. He already knew Cobb was wanted in America, accused of murdering his own wife. Eames had done his research as well. Yet he couldn’t figure out if it was true or not. Though Cobb didn’t strike him as the murdering type, Eames thought Cobb did look guilty, sometimes.

But Eames had dealt with worse. In his experience, this sort of thing just came with the job. And Eames’ way to deal with that was by not interfering. As long as Cobb’s past didn’t mess with the job, it wasn’t Eames’ business. All of them had their own skeletons and it wasn’t his place to ask, or to judge. And if Eames so much as smelled trouble, well, he could always leave. No loyalties, no guilt.

Still, Eames was finding it really disturbing that he somehow envied Arthur’s blind trust in Cobb. Loyalty had its perks, apparently.

At some point they ended up talking about the job and Arthur even praised Eames’ performance, observing how his own suggestions had worked well with the mark, in the end. Eames laughed at that, sipping his glass of whisky. He knew that was exactly the sort of compliment he should expect from someone like Arthur. Never giving, not really, never enough.

Arthur, Eames realized, was probably the most insecure person he had ever met. It was sad and fascinating at the same time; sad, because it wasn’t an easy path, and fascinating because in this one way, they were the same. Arthur knew what he wanted and he planned everything out, no matter how deeply he had to bury his own self to get there. Eames always knew what he wanted, too. And Eames always did what he wanted, when he wanted to do. The only difference was he didn’t have any idea of what it was like to need to control everything around him. Having to plan every single step of his way, like shortcuts couldn’t happen, _ever_.

While Arthur hated being wrong, Eames already knew he couldn’t always be right. Those were both legitimate ways to dealt with information, Eames supposed. Arthur was a point man because it was how he manufactured information. Eames was a forger for the exact same reason. But while Arthur managed to turn information into data, Eames built emotions. He wasn’t a forger because he loved to mess with people’s heads, to turn their inner fears and desires against them. Though that gave him power, it was not about the power. Eames was a forger because even when he found himself behind someone else’s face, he still got to feel, to want, to be amazed, to be someone. It was not just about the looks, the gestures, the subtle tone of voice. A very creative subconscious could come up with all that. Eames knew he was something more than a pretty piece on the dreamscape. As a forger, he was able to play a bigger part. He got to choose and to learn from his mistakes. To be surprised when he found himself happy for being wrong.

“Oh, thank you, Arthur,” Eames toasted him with a smirk. “Though it was your indispensable research which kept our arses safe down there, right?”

Arthur’s reaction was, somehow, unexpected. Eames thought Arthur would be the type who always would choose to take a compliment like it was nothing but the undeniable truth, something he just didn’t have to recognize. Yet it took half a second before Arthur composed himself, that one single look forced Eames to understand something he had failed to notice until then.

Different ways to deal with information, yes. But different ways to deal with meaning, too.

He realized that Arthur worshiped his job as much as Eames enjoyed his, that his job _defined_ who Arthur was. Because having every small, insignificant detail of those people’s lives under his fingertips truly, deeply mattered. To Arthur, everything happening according to plan was only the most important matter in the world. The job going well _meant he_ did well, and it wasn’t a matter of pride or just control. Maybe not even about power or money. And the truth was that Eames’ teasing made Arthur feel small and insignificant.

And he thought about taking that back, but decided against it. Eames knew he could make it worse. So, he took another quick sip of his glass to prevent himself from saying anything else, and as Arthur had already changed the topic, Eames went with it.

An ordinary person could be easily fooled by Arthur’s cool tone of voice. Eames was not an ordinary person, though. Because Arthur could try to deduce all he wanted and then convince himself he _knew_ things, but as long as he wasn’t able to confirm them, black on white, he was just guessing, out of his league, playing the amateur. And when things reached that unstable little gray area, Eames was anything but an amateur. Noticing people’s subtle tones was what he was good at and he had learned most of Arthur’s in the past week. That wasn’t even something Eames consciously did; it was more like a habit he just couldn’t help. He still couldn’t read Arthur like he was an open book, filled with data to be analyzed but Eames could guess and his guesses were usually accurate. And he guessed he sympathized with Arthur’s need to be in control of his own emotions as Eames needed to be in charge of his marks’.

They avoided every topic that involved dream-sharing and ended up talking about boring stuff: sports, politics. Not that Eames was bothered. In fact, he enjoyed observing how people expressed themselves on ordinary things. The most mundane subjects had given Eames some of his best insights. He smiled, peaceful, as he ordered another shot of whisky for himself and a third beer for Arthur with a wave of his hand. He even faked a face when Arthur refused to say ‘football’ over ‘soccer’. But Eames was barely able to hold back a laugh as Arthur, seeming to run out of topics, started in on the weather.

“Good god,” Eames blurted out, instead. “Now I feel like I’m at home.”

And Arthur must have realized how stupid he had just sounded, because he choked immediately, spitting beer over the counter. Eames was quickly on his feet to pat Arthur on the back. Arthur was all flushed, coughing, his lips wet. He shrugged Eames’ hand off, but murmured something vaguely grateful when Eames took a green handkerchief out of his pocket shirt and handed it to him.

That was when the storm began.

It took Eames one single look before he swore under his breath. That wasn’t a regular storm; it was like the whole damn sky had started falling apart. If it didn’t break soon it would be impossible for him to find a cab, let alone catch a flight. Goodbye, Jamaica.

They sat in silence and watched the rain lashing against the bar’s large window, to the people on the streets putting up umbrellas and running to cover themselves up. Eames saw Arthur smiling, like he was relieved that he had everything under control and those people didn’t. Eames shook his head again. He had to leave, soon, because that smile definitely shouldn’t look so disturbingly charming.

“Talking about the bloody weather,” Eames stated, letting out a heavy sigh because the silence wasn’t doing him any good.

“I have a room. Upstairs,” Arthur declared, his voice cool as ever, eyes locked on the rain, Eames’ green handkerchief gripped hard in his hand. “With a bed,” he added out of necessity, tilting his head a bit so Eames could see his face.

Arthur’s lips were still wet, and Eames felt understanding hit him like a jolting kick. From the corner of his eyes, Eames perceived a lighting bolt forking the sky, very soon followed with the massive sound of thunder. The storm was right above them, and Arthur didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, he just sat there and waited. Eames felt his throat and mouth dry out and he thought _what the bloody hell_.

“I bet you do,” Eames replied carefully, because what else he could possibly say?

Arthur turned his face back to the rain and fell into total silence for what felt like an endless, dreamy minute. Eames felt like Arthur was busy weighing each one of his next words, whether it was worth it or not to vocalize them. Arthur was planning, analyzing, and measuring the risks, because Eames knew Arthur also couldn’t help it. Eames waited, then, noticing the visible part of Arthur’s neck blushing a deep red and he was surprised for his suddenly aching chest. Because, yes, that was sad.

And fascinating, too.

When Arthur finally decided to speak, Eames noticed there was an almost imperceptible note of anxiety in his voice.

“Is that a _yes_?” Arthur said, and Eames thought about how he must know that up here, in the real world, things rarely went according to plan. He didn’t know what to answer, because Eames had no idea what yes, or even no, could mean. He could guess, of course, always, but that was it. It could be fun, could be the best way to finish what so far had been a hard, though pleasant and lucrative week. It also could be the biggest mistake of his life and Eames had had his great share of mistakes, thank you very much. He didn’t know if could learn anything from this one, though. So yes, Eames could try to guess what Arthur meant, but he only knew one thing for sure.

Eames knew he always knew what he wanted, and at that precise moment, what Eames did want was to have a chance to _know_ Arthur. To know him well enough so he could ask his favorite color, and maybe the middle name of his high school sweetheart. Eames wanted to learn all about Arthur’s hopes and dreams. To get Arthur to trust him as he trusted Cobb.

Eames wanted time, he wanted a chance. A chance to understand how he had ended up there, with the sky falling over his head, a half-glass of whisky pressed against his hand and a stranger at his side, the most insecure person he had ever met, someone who both made his chest ache and fascinated him at the same time.

And Eames also knew he couldn’t get what he wanted, not this time, because the few days he had spent with Arthur had already taught him that _nobody_ could ever get that man to do anything he didn’t plan to do. Though Arthur couldn’t have planned the storm, he certainly had planned all the things he had said. What he had just asked for. If Eames chose to turn Arthur down now, though, he knew he wouldn’t ever get that chance back.

So, Eames made a choice. He emptied his glass and smiled sideways. He put a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and whispered close to his ear.

“Lead the way, darling.”

Eames glimpsed the twist at the corner of Arthur’s lips, but neither of them said anything else. They reached the sixth floor and Arthur was on his knees as soon as the door closed behind them. Arthur opened Eames’ trousers and grasped his cock, sucking Eames until he was impossibly hard. Then, all red cheeks and messy hair courtesy of Eames’ fingers, Arthur stood up and stepped back. He started to take his clothes off, suit jacket, tie, trousers, all loosened and dropped aside in quick, precise little movements.

He stared as Arthur lay on the bed, wearing only a white dress shirt and a pair of deep blue boxer shorts, his brown eyes looking pleased at Eames, busy trying to catch his breath. Arthur stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear as Eames walked closer, every muscle of his body aching to fuck him. Eames wasn’t surprised to discover that Arthur was prepared, that he was expecting this, as Arthur reached for the nightstand, shoving condoms and lube into Eames’ hands.

Eames tore off Arthur’s boxers and lifted one of his legs, sticking two lubed fingers inside him, fucking Arthur with them. He watched, amazed, as Arthur closed his eyes and arched his body, never stopping to stroked himself, biting down on his lower lip. Eames increased the pressure of his fingers, pulling them out and shoving them back in a few times before he could add one more.

Arthur bled his lip a bit and Eames forced himself to resist the urge to lower his head and lick the blood off. Instead, he kept fucking Arthur with his fingers, four of them now, curled, twisted, buried deep inside him, in and out until Arthur couldn’t take it anymore and he came with a small cry, muffled against his gritted teeth.

Eames smirked as Arthur gazed at him, his breath settling. Then, looking down at Eames’ fingers still buried inside him, Arthur smiled the dirtiest smile Eames had ever seen on a person. He felt Arthur’s muscles clenching around his fingers, and Eames knew he had had enough. Eames’ cock ached as he took the fingers out so he could unroll a condom on himself, his heart pounding hard and painfully fast against his chest.

Eames looked down at Arthur’s body, the white shirt rumpled in all the wrong ways, and took a long, deep breath. But before he could say or do anything else, Arthur already had spread his legs further apart, making room for Eames. And this time Arthur moaned, softly, as Eames’ cock disappeared inch by inch inside him.

Arthur’s hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it fast and making it hard again. Eames began to pull almost all of his length out, before pushing back in. He observed as Arthur’s head sank into the mattress, his hair and face the most perfect mess, and Eames fucked Arthur hard, pressing him down, shifting his body until he could find the right angle, shoving himself against Arthur’s hips. Between the thrusts, Eames thought he heard something like his name, but once he stared down at Arthur’s face, he knew it didn’t matter, because he was so, _so_ close.

Eames took Arthur’s cock and hand between his fingers, setting a rhythm combined with the thrusts of his hips. They came almost at the same time. Eames hard, blinded, breathless inside Arthur, his fingers instantly squeezing Arthur’s cock and hand, making him gasp and come. He felt Arthur’s free hand plunging five short fingernails into his shoulder.

He fell over Arthur’s chest, still pulsing inside him, his face perfectly placed against Arthur’s warm neck. Eames kissed the sweat off his skin and without thinking about it, because no one could ever blame him for not thinking straight, then, Eames lifted his head so he could look into Arthur’s eyes.

They were wide open, watching him with an unreadable expression, maybe a shadow of a smile upon his face. That was enough for Eames, who put a hand on Arthur’s chest, closer to his collarbone, feeling the heartbeat beneath his fingers. Eames lowered his head, aiming for Arthur’s bruised, swollen lips; he had never wanted to kiss someone so badly before.

But Eames’ mouth brushed against the warm, soft skin of Arthur’s cheek as he shifted his body under Eames’, his heartbeat no longer beneath Eames’ fingertips. Eames felt an icy cold piercing his spine, but he put himself together quickly, taking Arthur’s earlobe between his teeth and biting hard, before sucking it softly. Arthur let out a strangled cry in surprise, but he didn’t try to shove Eames away. They laid in silence for a while, Eames’ breathing warm in Arthur’ hair, until he disentangled himself from Arthur, making his way into the bathroom.

Eames was back a few minutes later, the condom properly disposed of and his face and hands washed with cold water. Eames found Arthur already asleep, little noises muffled against a pillow, a sheet poorly covering his lower body. Then, Eames noticed two things, and he couldn’t decide which one surprised him the most: the fact that Arthur allowed himself to sleep like that, all messy and sticky, or that Arthur had left enough room for Eames to join him in bed, if Eames wanted.

And he _did_ want.

But after Eames had collected all his clothes from the floor, what he chose do was dress himself. He cast a look at the man in the bed, an uncertain, lingering look, before walking away.


	2. It ended messy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags' list has been updated.

_It ended messy._

Eames could even say that it was Cobb who put an end to it. Sort of.

They were working on a particularly important case, and Cobb had come in the night before they were supposed to strike in order to give everything a final check. But what he found inside the apartment they’d rented for headquarters was Arthur pinning Eames down with his legs and body, throwing punch after punch at him.

And when Cobb shouted _what the hell_ – they broke apart, breathing hard and not looking at each other. They didn’t have to. Eames knew Arthur had a deep cut in his lower lip and a nasty black eye, as he could feel his own face swollen and tasted the blood all over his teeth.

Eames didn’t wait for Cobb to say anything to them, to ask for an explanation, an apology. And Eames didn’t want to hear Arthur say _anything_ else. So he left. He left his things and his jacket and walked out the doors without looking back. He didn’t know what Arthur would say to Cobb, and he couldn’t have cared less.

At least, that’s what Eames repeated to himself for a few blocks before he realized he was freezing his arse off out there. So, he swore. He cursed Arthur. Because Arthur wouldn’t go out without his goddamn coat. Because Arthur wouldn’t pin Eames down, not unless he intended to fuck his brains out. Arthur wouldn’t smash Eames’ face with his bare hands if Eames hadn’t thrown the first punch. Eames regretted that, now, of course. He had never meant to hurt Arthur in any way.

Yet he had. And the fact that Eames was hurt back _every_ single time didn’t make him feel any better. After all, it had been his choice. He chose to know Arthur. He chose to come back and ask Arthur the most boring questions he could think of. Eames chose to smile instead of just smirking at him. He chose to care before he even knew Arthur well enough for it. Eames liked people in general, but Arthur, well. Eames knew Arthur was special. In some cliché, heartbroken meaning of special.

He had thought Arthur was special after working with him for the first time, but Eames only knew Arthur was somehow special _for_ him exactly three weeks after that stormy night in Russia, the night they fucked in Arthur’s hotel room. Because Eames had done all that before; he went to bed with people he barely knew and fucked them, let them fuck him, and Eames was always perfectly capable of walking away without second thoughts haunting him. He had guessed things could be a little bit different with Arthur from the beginning, though. Because he didn’t want to just fuck Arthur to the point where neither of them could think or see straight. But since that was what Arthur wanted, that was what they had done.

And Eames thought about how he must have had misread the signs as Arthur turned his body just in time, right before Eames tried to kiss him. He thought that must had been just what it had looked like: a meaningless good time. And Eames was afraid he wouldn’t be able to deal with that in the morning after, with Arthur glancing down at him and asking Eames to forget about the whole thing. So Eames chose to deal with it in his own way.

He tried very hard to not to think about Arthur in the following weeks. Eames bought an airline ticket to Jamaica, lay on the beach and he leered, numbed by the heat and the sea breeze, as waves destroyed little sand castles. He met and slept with a gorgeous waitress for a couple of nights, enamored by the tone of her dark skin. But when they kissed, her lips pressing hard against his, Eames couldn’t help but wonder how Arthur’s would taste like. That made him a little bit worried, but he was able to shut out the thought, at least for the moment.

What made Eames bloody worried was being assaulted by the most ridiculous idea: Arthur, _there_, with him. Arthur bitching about the heat and telling Eames statistics data about sea creatures and global warming as they walked along the sidewalk. Somehow, Eames knew he would find that annoying, yet ridiculously charming. He already knew Arthur was special, and he was damn sure of it the morning Cobb called and Eames found himself on a plane in a matter of one hour and forty-four minutes.

Eames knew because, when he fell asleep after a strong cocktail, he discovered himself being able to dream again. Dreaming just like he used to do. The kind of dream with shadowy figures in impossible shapes, played by all of our lost memories. Places and pictures filled with no sense but all meaning. Eames found himself dreaming, _actually_ dreaming of the taste of Arthur’s lips, feeling the warmth of the bed he chose to walk away from. And as he woke up, no kick, no musical countdown, the plane ready to land, Eames took out a poker chip from his inner pocket, feeling its shape and weight, rubbing it against his knuckles, and then closing his fingers around it. Eames pressed a hand against his forehead, completely aware that he had never felt so scared before. Because it should take a lot more than an one night stand to trigger such reactions out of him. Eames knew dreams could be forged and all, but why, _why_ would he come up with something that only could bring him trouble?

Eames knew the answer as he walked into an old five floor building in Lisbon, a couple of hours later. When Arthur immediately looked up from his desk at the sound of his voice. When Eames smiled at him and realized how hard Arthur was fighting to not smile back.

“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Arthur dropped his gaze back to the open aluminum case over the table.

Eames didn’t reply. He shrugged off his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. As he stepped closer, Eames noticed Arthur had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, so he could more easily maneuver a tiny screwdriver through the PASIV’s delicate gears. He also noticed there were small dirty oil stains spread over both of Arthur’s hands, which probably shouldn’t have looked as good as Eames thought they did. He felt hypnotized by the little dance of Arthur’s fingers, the childish way Arthur’s forehead wrinkled every time his hair fell in front of his eyes, how only the first button of Arthur’s shirt was undone, the tie still in place, like that was the closest Arthur would come to allowing himself to relax at work.

Once Arthur was finished and he took a piece of fabric to clean his hands, Eames’ reaction was immediate. He grabbed Arthur’s wrist and watched Arthur raise a calculated eyebrow at him. Arthur didn’t try to release himself, though.

“Do you mind?” He inquired, calm and polite, like he was merely asking Eames to _please_ hand him the hammer.

“Very much.” Eames grinned in reply.

“You don’t strike me as the type of guy who likes to get his hands dirty, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warned him, the corner of his lips twisting in a half-smile.

He tugged Arthur’s hand close. “Depends on what’s at stake, darling.” And Eames would have kissed those oil-dirtied fingers if a voice hadn’t suddenly echoed from the entrance.

“Eames!” Cobb walked into the room, and Arthur reclaimed his hand from Eames’ grip so fast he almost fell onto the chair behind the desk. “Looks like you beat me.”

“I just got lucky at the airport,” Eames declared. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur rubbing his hands on the piece of fabric so forcefully he would probably end up peeling his skin off.

“Glad you could join us.” Cobb gave Eames a vigorous handshake, handing him a folder filled with data and pictures. “I think our guy here is going to need an extra distraction. Sorry I couldn’t tell you much on the phone, he’s local but has some powerful contacts.”

“I see.” Eames took his eyes off the folder to look over his shoulder at Arthur, who still didn’t dare to look up at them. Arthur’s ears were scarlet to their tips. He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something.”

As Cobb left the building about two hours later to check on a matter Eames didn’t take the trouble to listen to or to record, Arthur gazed up at him. His eyebrows were shaped in one single, obviously pissed off line.

“_What_ were you thinking-” he started, but Eames cut him off, placing a fingertip over Arthur’s lips.

“What I was thinking, Arthur, was that maybe we should skip lunch time and sneak ourselves into that bathroom over there. Then, I’ll suck your dick.”

And Eames thought, afterwards, how the look on Arthur’s face could ever only be trumped by the sound of his own name being moaned somewhere above his head, the pressure of Arthur’s fingers digging into his shoulders and hair, the ceaseless shaking of Arthur’s legs after he came and Eames got up, pinning him against the door, putting Arthur’s shirt back in place, buttoning his trousers and fixing his tie with a lazy, satisfied smile.

They were able to work for the rest of the day without further incidents and when they left the building, hours later, they left together. They took a cab and went directly to the hotel room Eames had booked earlier, though they didn’t decide what to do until they found themselves alone, the door shut as a question hanging behind them. So Arthur decided he was starving and Eames ordered Chinese and tried not to laugh as Arthur refused to admit he just couldn’t handle the (_dammit!_) chopsticks and Eames just couldn’t hold it back anymore when Arthur started to make a fuss over Eames’ (but I’m _serious_) offer to feed him by hand and Arthur tried not to smile as Eames went down to ask for silverware from the hotel’s kitchen and pulled a face when soy sauce spilled on his (_fuck!_) shirt.

“Come here.” Eames offered Arthur his hand, and Arthur stared up at him and then back to his chest, like he had expected to see Eames handing him a magic solution for ruined tailored dress shirts. Eames rolled his eyes and grasped Arthur’s wrist, hauling him all the way to the bathroom.

They had gentle, wet, slow sex in the shower. Arthur’s face pressed against his crossed arms pressed against the hideous bathroom yellow tiles. Eames’ hands gripping Arthur’s hips, his cock sliding in and out of Arthur’s body. The groans, the curses coming out of Eames’ mouth, were lost in the warm skin of Arthur’s neck. The cries, the moans Arthur’s clenched teeth tried to keep down being released at the firm touch of Eames’ hand around his cock. Eames came first, biting the back of Arthur’s neck, his come running down Arthur’s thighs, Arthur following right after, his head falling back, eyelids slipping closed, hair dripping and Eames’ hand stroking him until the end. Arthur’s mouth was only a kiss away, but Eames didn’t dare. He softly sucked the spot where his teeth had just marked Arthur’s skin and moved them both under the stream of water.

They didn’t realize how tired they really were until they faced each other over the bed. Eames smiled, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and tugged out the end of the sheet, sliding himself under the covers and making room for Arthur. Arthur stared at him, his eyelashes heavy, his body looking smaller than it really was inside an old The Smiths T-shirt he had borrowed from Eames’ suitcase, before his hands hesitantly gripped his edge of the sheet and allowed himself to lay down beside Eames, though he kept a safe distance between them. Arthur’s lips twisted in some kind of tired, worn out smile and he closed his eyes without further resistance. Eames sunk his head on his own pillow and fought against sleep, trying to watch Arthur’s face, Arthur’s _lips_, just a little while longer.

Eames only realized he had been asleep when he woke up a few hours later, the lights of the street staining the darkness of their room, glancing at Arthur’s face across the bed, a mess of dark hair over the pillow, his mouth slightly open. Arthur twitched a bit in his sleep as Eames couldn’t help touching Arthur’s face with his fingertips, pulling them immediately back as he heard a small murmur from him. Eames noticed Arthur just wrinkled his forehead and bit his lower lip.

And yes, he thought about it, but Eames knew he shouldn’t steal a first kiss like you did with a secret from a manipulated dream. That kind of meaning shouldn’t dissipate itself into fog once you woke up. Eames held his hand only a few inches above Arthur’s skin and frowned as he saw Arthur grasping a pillow, twisting his face in unmistakable pain.

But Eames only knew for sure that Arthur was having a bad dream when Arthur’s body jolted, his eyes wide open, running from nowhere to Eames’ fingers, then to his face and finally locking onto Eames’ eyes. Arthur closed and opened his mouth but not a single sound came out.

Eames thought about retrieving his hand, but when he so much as tried to move his fingers away, he felt Arthur grabbing his wrist, keeping Eames’ hand in place. He held his breath and he tried not to blink, trying to read Arthur, trying to understand and, when he felt a light, almost imperceptible pull from Arthur’s hand, Eames tried really hard not to _hope_. Yet, when the last thing he glimpsed, right before closing his eyes, were Arthur’s parted lips, Eames couldn’t help but wonder that maybe, maybe hoping was the okay thing to do.

Arthur tasted just like waking up in the middle of the night, dying for nothing more than a glass of water. You drank and drank of it and even though you knew it was such an ordinary taste you also knew you had never tasted anything better in your entire life. Then, you would feel warm and lazy as you closed your eyes, as you were hit by this overwhelming anxiety to just sink back into oblivion.

Eames felt Arthur let go of his wrist to grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer, opening his mouth fully beneath his. He felt Arthur tilting his head under his fingertips, he felt Arthur’s tongue against his and Eames deepened the kiss, fisting a handful of Arthur’s hair.

Eames was on top of him when they broke apart, Arthur’s body hot, hard, _ready_ under his. Eames opened his eyes, trying not to smile as he found a breathless, panting Arthur slipping a hand down between their bodies. Eames didn’t try to stop him, choosing to lower his head again, taking Arthur’s lip between his teeth and biting it gently as Arthur held their cocks. They kissed, touched, gasped against each other’s mouths, breathing in and out, their eyes shut, each of Eames’ senses crawling out of his skin, Arthur’s hand, Arthur’s lips, Arthur’s tongue and Eames grabbed Arthur’s hair, hard, when he came, crushing their mouths and kissing Arthur sloppily, trying to touch and breathe and _breathe_-

Eames felt the unsteady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat and noticed he had his head on Arthur’s chest. Eames didn’t know how his head had ended up there and he didn’t care. He only cared about listening to the soft sounds coming out of Arthur’s mouth, their breathing slowing together. To the shape of Arthur’s hand still stuck between their lower bodies. Eames smiled, because of course he couldn’t help it.

“I see you _do_ like to get your hands dirty,” Eames sighed, happily.

And breathing over his hair, Arthur replied, shortly.

“_Shut_ up.”

Eames laughed, hard, and he pulled Arthur closer, _harder_, into his arms.

Yes, Eames knew Arthur was special. He had known from the very beginning. He knew when Arthur didn’t smile back just after they were introduced. He knew when Arthur criticized him, when Arthur smiled for the first time, when Arthur first had a kind word for him. When Eames decided that this wasn’t a good idea because they worked together and that would be a hell of a lot of trouble. He knew when he realized he didn’t need to know Arthur to care. When he hurt him and felt bad and sad about it and his chest ached. Eames knew Arthur was special when he dreamt about him. When he woke up, scared to death and still certain that was okay, _okay_.

Eames knew Arthur was special because he was worth the trouble.

And that’s why Eames was finding it so fucking hard to let it go. To walk away and leave behind him all they had built for the past few months. It wasn’t much, really. It wasn’t even what you would have called a peaceful, quiet, loving existence. But it did matter. Every kiss. Every talk. Every fuck.

Every fight.

And how they did fight.

It wasn’t that bad, right there in the beginning. Eames teased Arthur, Arthur snapped back at him and Cobb frowned, curious, looking at them like they were just children, his eyes half-annoyed, half-soft. And they worked, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Cobb didn’t need a forger on every single job and Eames spent his weeks sometimes in Kenya, sometimes in Spain, sometimes in Brazil and Arthur always knew how to find him. And so they met, sometimes to work, sometimes to talk, always to fuck and to kiss. After the first month, the fights began.

Eames didn’t mind them, much, then. They were just silly little things, a harsh word, a misplaced gesture, a sideways look. He never thought about how just like all of Arthur’s small, insignificant details, those silly little things could find the tiniest breach to drift them apart. Eames didn’t mind the fights, then, because despite all of Arthur’s half-empty smiles and frequent annoyed glares, Eames could swear Arthur, in his own way, also thought Eames was special.

It was one night, eight months and one week after Lisbon, following a job where the dream collapsed a _second_ after Cobb was able to extract the mark’s secret, that Arthur pinned Eames down in another hotel bed and fucked him into the mattress. Arthur fucked Eames hard, like he had to, like he needed to work all of the universe’s anger out of his system. Arthur fucked Eames like what had happened earlier was his fault, somehow. Eames didn’t understand Arthur’s rage and he couldn’t have cared less, because when Arthur grasped Eames’ hips, pounding into him faster and deeper, it felt good, _good_.

Once they finished, Arthur disappeared into the bathroom and Eames automatically reached for his poker chip on the nightstand. And he didn’t even notice Arthur was back until he felt a heavy gaze over him and he glanced up, meeting a pair of unsettling brown eyes. And Eames’ heart sunk a bit as he understood Arthur looked physically hurt just to be staring at him.

“_What_?” Eames put his totem away, speaking just a little bit more sharply than he really meant to. Because he was the one all bruised and sore and it was Arthur’s fault, not his.

“I know something happened,” Arthur choked in a small voice. “To you.”

Eames smiled at him, weakly, all his sharp indignity gone. Though they never had talked about Eames’ totem again, sometimes he did notice Arthur watching him, like he expected Eames to start to babble nonsense at any minute. They never talked much about Arthur’s totem either, and Eames never second-guessed Arthur’s sanity over that. Of course it would be too much to ask Arthur to pay him the same courtesy. Because Arthur was right. Something had happened to Eames and in some strange way, he knew that it did matter to Arthur. And that would be the most endearing thing Arthur had ever said to him if it hadn’t been so equally condescending. Eames let out a heavy sigh and grasped Arthur’s hand, making him slide onto the bed. He felt Arthur shifting a bit, like he just couldn’t relax into Eames’ arms anymore. He stroked Arthur’s hair and held him closer, putting his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. Eames felt cared for. And judged.

“Oh, Arthur, haven’t you heard?” Eames breathed, also tired. “Something happened to all of us.”

And that one wasn’t even a real fight. They had had real fights before. But Eames felt Arthur slowly walking away from him after that night. Unconsciously, Eames did the same. He thought he was just giving Arthur some space. And when they met again, a few weeks later, Arthur was so quiet and distant that Eames teased Arthur until he snapped, starting to yell over a lot of nothing.

So, no. Eames didn’t mind the fights and he didn’t think it was that bad. Every time they fought, Eames thought that it was okay, because the bad things mattered, too. As much as all the kisses, talks and fucks. Even if, of course, Eames had kissed, talked and fucked a lot of people in his life. Even if Eames had fallen in love more times than he could possibly count. Yes, Eames had said his share of I love you’s. Sometimes, he had even meant them.

He never said that to Arthur, though. Eames did think about it, a few times. He thought about how much he loved Arthur every time Arthur tucked his chin against the curve of his neck, when Arthur gasped his name against his mouth, when Arthur saved his arse from a dozen hostile projections, a Glock in his hand, his hair perfectly slicked back and a small shake of his head, which could be translated as a my pleasure, Mr. Eames. Yes, Eames did think of saying I love you, but when the words pierced through his throat and reached his lips, finally ready to come out, Arthur chose that precise moment to turn his head up at him. Arthur stared deep into Eames’ eyes.

“Do you still dream?” was what Arthur asked him, then.

And yes, Eames had kissed, talked to and fucked a lot of people in his life. However, he had never fought someone like he fought Arthur. Or like Arthur fought him. It was not that he felt mad about Arthur’s question, not at all. It was a reasonable question. Work always was the common place for them to go. They talked about what it was like being able to build their own dreams. They sat, just the two of them, at coffee shops in Chicago, São Paulo and Oslo and they shared one job experience or two. They even went under together a couple of times. Arthur would always be the dreamer and Eames didn’t mind sharing his subconscious with him. They went under when Cobb didn’t need either of them and they simulated car chases and ambushes to improve their skills and practice new tricks.

They never, however, talked to each other about their real dreams. Eames never asked what Arthur was dreaming about the night they shared their first kiss and Eames never told Arthur he was the one responsible for him being able to dream again. So, yes, Eames did think about saying I love you, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Arthur he dreamt about him.

“Of course I do,” was what Eames replied, instead.

And when they fought, because Arthur needed to learn how to deal with a little chance, because Eames didn’t warn him he was going to be late, because, well, didn’t Arthur know everything already, because Eames could at least take the trouble to shave himself, because Arthur should try to speak the hell up about what was going on inside that thick skull of his, because Eames forgot to make a stupid hotel reservation, because Arthur obviously never had been introduced to Mr. Sense of Humor, because Eames should try to mind his own damn business, because Arthur for the last time insisted he’s okay, _dammit_, because Eames was so good at pointing out Arthur’s condescension, because Arthur was so good at pointing out Eames’ unreliability, because Eames hung up on his face, because Arthur didn’t want Cobb to know, because Eames had _no_ right, because wasn’t Arthur a _bloody_ coward, because Eames walked away first, because Arthur was never wrong, because Eames was always wrong, because-

When they fought, Arthur losing every bit of his precious self-control, becoming harsh and mean, Eames never raised his voice, his tone mingled in something between amused, disappointed and conformed. When they fought until they wore off each and every last argument and there was only a shoved door and empty self-promises of never turning back left, cooling and fading between them.

When they fought, all Eames could bring himself to think about was that _maybe_, maybe Arthur dreamt about him, too.

So they stayed away as much as they stayed close. Like being apart hurt as much as being together. They still kissed and fucked, frenetic little touches, but they barely spoke to each other in the last months. Eames tried. Arthur avoided. It was a job which went wrong, it was the rain, the sun, the traffic, the heat, the flight, the wind, the whole bloody world! Eames tried because he loved all of Arthur’s little head shakes, the good and bad ones.

But Eames didn’t know why or what Arthur was avoiding and he was too afraid to ask. Because the truth was that you could only push so far before something was irreparably broken and Eames knew he couldn’t keep pushing forever. Even if all their last fights sounded like they couldn’t get any worse. Somehow, they always did. Eames knew he and Arthur didn’t have much. Much time, much in common, apart from someone else’s dreams to share. He knew that they weren’t even on the same page. Eames knew they both lived for reading the same information in order to achieve entirely different goals.

Yet, he tried. He hoped. Eames told himself he was ready to wait, if he had to.

He wasn’t.

Eames kept pushing. He pushed it as far as it could get. He showed up, uninvited, at Arthur’s flat in L.A., a month and three days after a fight which ended with Eames telling Arthur to _fuck the hell off_. He had flown over half the globe and he was drunk and he bought Arthur a bouquet of red roses on his way from the airport. He didn’t know Arthur hated roses and he did ask if Arthur had missed him. Arthur shook his head and asked Eames to leave, please. Eames refused and they fought, again.

It was a clean, fresh night in Los Angeles and Eames forgot how much he loved Arthur. Because there they were. Thirteen and a half months after their first kiss, nine days before their last, right after another talk, another fight, a desperate fuck without one single kiss, and Arthur finally spoke out what Eames knew he’d been avoiding for so long, Arthur’s voice hollow and steady.

“It’s just... I can’t imagine a future for us.”

And Eames observed him for a few seconds, then Eames laughed. He laughed because suddenly he knew he just couldn’t take it anymore. Eames laughed because that was the only thing he could possibly do. He laughed like he was crying, all those small unselfconscious sounds, and he laid there with his back against the bedpost until soft little noises told him Arthur had finally fallen asleep. Just then Eames dared to look at him. He held back the desire to stroke Arthur’s dark hair off his face. Because even though Eames forgot he loved Arthur, Arthur still would be everything Eames thought of him. Smart, hard, impossible to read. Arthur still would be the most insecure person Eames had ever known. Eames closed his eyes and thought about how sad that all was. He snorted, bitterly, for himself.

“It’s only because you have no imagination, darling.”

Painful as it all was, Eames supposed their fistfight had been a pretty obvious, not to mention suitable last straw. And he did think about leaving the city that exact same night, leaving his jacket and all of his things behind. Eames didn’t want to face Arthur. Not after he had punched the mouth he dreamt about kissing. After Arthur had hit him back, hard and with no regret. Eames knew Arthur didn’t regret what he had said in L.A., only a few days back. Eames knew Arthur meant every word. Even after they had crossed half the world so they could meet Cobb for a new job, Eames still couldn’t shake off the tone of Arthur’s voice telling him they didn’t have a future. And when Eames grabbed him by his collar for a quick kiss as Arthur sat at his side in the cab, he didn’t know that that would be their last one for a long time.

He hadn’t imagined that Arthur would be hitting him with all the strength he had in only a matter of days. And he could never have _imagined_ that Arthur thought Eames obviously should feel the same way about them, too. But that was what Arthur yelled at him. That was what hit Eames, hard, and that was what had driven him to hit back. Eames didn’t have the words to hurt Arthur, though, so he used his fist instead. Because Arthur had every right to choose how he felt, even if what he chose was to feel nothing. He had every bloody right. As Eames had a choice when he chose to walk away after their first night and he had chosen to hold Arthur closer, holding him in his arms, following their second. They both had every right to be stupid and selfish in their own, but Arthur had no fucking right to tell Eames how Eames should feel. No right to yell that Eames shouldn’t even have had _hoped_ for them.

Eames knew Arthur was special, he knew he loved him, even if he tried to forget those things, every now and then. Eames also knew he wouldn’t betray the only thing they still had, the common place for them to go.

So Eames showed up in the rented apartment, ready for work, the next day. He faced Arthur, his bruised lower lip, his black eye hidden behind sunglasses, his hair slicked back, his clothes obliviously impeccable. Cobb didn’t say a thing, he didn’t seem relieved or worried. They finished the job as they had trained to do, Cobb gave him his share and Eames walked away, first.

He couldn’t sleep on the plane, after. Eames kept thinking about the day he found out, half-surprised and a bit amused, that Arthur’s favorite color was red. When Eames didn’t believe him as Arthur confessed that he hadn’t had a high school sweetheart.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written in 2010 and then posted at my LJ. English is not my native language. Any constructive criticism is welcomed. ;)


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